Detectives Make the Worst Patients
by Besina
Summary: It's often said that doctors make the worst patients. That is patently untrue if one has known a sick Consulting Detective. Sherlock doesn't get sick often, but when he does, it's a doozy.
1. The Post-Case Crash

John was frankly fairly impressed that Sherlock hadn't succumbed to something like this much sooner, given the meager amounts of food he ingested, the tiny amounts of sleep he allowed himself, and the exertions he put his body through in order to solve a case or chase down a killer.

Sherlock didn't get sick often, which was only this side of miraculous, but when he did, oh did he ever!

The last case had taken six days to clear up, lots of travelling, sleepless nights, minimal amounts of food, running around in bad weather, and extensive interaction with the homeless, who were never in the best of health to begin with. They'd managed to catch their man, and Sherlock had been convinced to eat something substantial before he went to dive into his 'post-case coma', as John had titled it, falling across his bed fully clothed and asleep before he hit the covers. Sherlock would be out of it for anywhere from seventeen to twenty-four hours, before waking, eating and using the facilities, then falling back to bed for another five to twelve.

The flat was eerily quiet when Sherlock hibernated like this, but it was something John had grown accustomed to, and he normally used his time to type up and post his blog reports, have a quiet cuppa, and watch some telly that he really preferred Sherlock _not_ ruin for him with his commentary.

Sherlock had been unconscious for eleven hours thus far, John's blog was posted and he had settled himself in front of the television, when a croaky-sounding voice issued from Sherlock's bedroom. "John? John, I can't get up!" There was no panic in the hoarse whisper, just an insistence.

Worried, John lay down the remote control, and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. He poked his head around the corner to see the still-clothed detective, still laying face-down, crosswise on his bed, but attempting for all sakes and purposes, to tunnel through it; his arms and legs flailing ineffectually, hands digging at and pulling back the covers. "Sherlock?", he inquired.

Sherlock lifted his head and glassy eyes came to rest against John's gaze. "John, it's trying to eat me. I have to get up." He sounded tired.

If for no other reason than the glassy-eyed stare, John knew his detective was sick. The nonsense babbling and the sheen of sweat across his face just confirmed it. "Sherlock!", he exclaimed, crossing quickly to the side of the bed and laying a hand across his flatmate's brow, "Gods, you're burning up."

Sherlock seemed to become a bit more frantic as he flailed at the sheets, then grabbed ahold of John's arm. Sincere, fever-bright eyes looked at him as he pleaded, "It's trying to swallow me, John, get the bed off me!"

Worried for his friend, the doctor part of him refused to laugh at the ridiculousness of the last statement, and helped Sherlock up from the monstrous bed, aiding him in standing, unsteady on his feet. Sherlock's eyes darted quickly around the room, searching for who-knows-what kind of threat. John captured his attention by cupping his jaw and turning Sherlock to face him.

"Sherlock, I want you to to pay close attention," he said slowly, "you're sick, very sick from the looks of it, and you're burning up. We need to get these clothes off you for a start, then cool you down. I'll get you medicine for the fever in a little bit, but you need to help me here, okay?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning his head away slightly as if trying to process the doctor's words. Then slowly, he began to, still confusedly, nod his head. Even if he hadn't understood it all, apparently he still recognised and trusted John enough to let him do whatever he needed to. He sagged against the doctor, who caught him and slowly redirected him into a chair.

"Can you get your coat and shirt off, Sherlock?" he asked, bending down to unfasten Sherlock's shoe laces.

An "mrrrm," and more squinty eyes was all he got by way of response, but Sherlock seemed to grasp the idea and started fiddling ineptly with buttons. Finished with Sherlock's shoes and socks, he unbuckled Sherlock's belt, unzipped the trousers as best he could with Sherlock still sitting down, then aided the flustered Sherlock with the suddenly very-difficult-to-solve buttons left on his suit jacket and shirt, tossing all the sweat-soaked clothing directly into the laundry basket earmarked for the dry-cleaner's. Out of his head or not, John was fairly certain Sherlock would lynch him for actually trying to wash his clothes.

In order to tackle the trousers, the only thing left, John pulled Sherlock to standing, who promptly fell limply across his back as he leaned down to work Sherlock out of those and his pants, leaving John huffing for breath and attempting to catch Sherlock from tipping over once he had accomplished his deed and needed to straighten back up. He managed it with a graceful aplomb that, had there been an audience, would have deserved a standing ovation. As it was, the only appreciation he got was from himself as he next tried to manoeuver Sherlock from the room to and into the shower.

They reached the bathroom with only a little wobbly difficulty, but getting Sherlock to remain standing while trying to help him lift a leg over the side of the tub was a challenge more difficult than John had faced in all of his RAMC training. At last, he gave up on the notion of a shower and of keeping Sherlock upright, and let Sherlock's lanky form fold in upon itself until he was sitting, slightly less unsteadily in the bathtub. John stoppered the drain and turned on tepid water, which nearly shot Sherlock out of his seat. "John!" he screeched, battling against the stream of water with both his hands and feet, managing to spray water everywhere but the tub, and dousing John in the process.

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's arms, looking him straight in the eye, "Sherlock! Sherlock, you're burning up! We need to get your body temperature down," then in a stroke of brilliance, he added levelly, "It's for an _experiment_, Sherlock. The case depends on it." Still staring somewhat vacantly into the doctor's eyes, Sherlock nodded, calmed down and allowed himself to be immersed in what must have felt like frigid water to him.

John, already sopped to the bone, stripped off his shirt and added it to the pools of water gathering on the floor, then found the soap and flannel and proceeded to bathe and disinfect the detective.

Sherlock turned his head loopily in John's direction. "John, I have to go."

"Go where, Sherlock?" John asked absently, working on scrubbing Sherlock's back.

"Oh. Nevermind..." came the distant reply, seconds before John figured out what had happened.

"Christ! Sher-lock!" he complained, moving immediately to pull out the plug and drain the tub, before refilling it. He knew Sherlock was too out of his head to have done it on purpose, but still... The entire bath had to be re-done. He finally reached Sherlock's sweat-plastered curls, and leaning the detective forward, poured a cup of cool water over them, causing Sherlock's entire body to shiver, but he remained complacent while John soaped up and lathered the silky curls.

Sherlock apparently appreciated a good head massage, as he let out a low groan of approval as John's fingers massaged the shampoo around his scalp. "Last rinse, Sherlock, then we'll get you back to bed." John tipped a few more cups of water over Sherlock's head, leaving his hair wet and gleaming, before towelling it off, draining the tub once more and drying Sherlock off as well, as best he could while the lanky detective remained seated in the tub, his attention focused this time on a minute crack in the caulking, which was fine by John as now he had to figure out a way to get Sherlock up and out of the tub and back into bed.

Throwing the remainder of the towels down on the floor, he sopped up as much of the water as he could, then leaned down and stretched Sherlock's upper body across his back, pulling him from the tub. As soon as the detective's feet came in contact with the floor, John stood and steadied him, looping Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and walking, or stumbling, the detective back to bed. He pulled back the covers, feeling to-hell-with-it as far as struggling to get his friend into pajamas, and covered him only lightly with the sheet.

He felt Sherlock's brow once more: still too warm, but definitely reduced from the fear-inspiring heat of before, and left for a moment to retrieve his medical bag and a fever reducer.

When he returned, Sherlock lay in bed, eyes closed, pleasantly singing nursery rhymes to himself, whilst 'conducting' by waving his arms aimlessly through the air.

"Sherlock, sit up. Here," he said, putting a small dose cup in Sherlock's hand, "down the hatch, it'll make you feel better. This one too," as another dose cup was introduced. He quickly checked down Sherlock's throat, seeing it red and inflamed, and his ears, also fairly closed-off. He took a quick swab of Sherlock's throat, earning him a gagging cough and a slightly off-center glare from his charge, before packing it away for the lab, and managing to get Sherlock to lie back down.

"That's it for now Sherlock. Now get some rest." The medicines John had given him were fairly strong and worked fast, and whether it was those or Sherlock's already present delirium couldn't be determined for the next line he spoke before drifting off: "The biscuits are evil. Don't eat the toffees," before humming himself to sleep.


	2. Tucked in and Tuckered Out

Completely exhausted from hauling a limp-limbed and lanky, but heavy flatmate about, John fell gratefully into the bedroom chair, meaning to keep an eye on him, perhaps to just close his eyes for a moment, before getting Mrs Hudson to watch him while he ran the throat culture to the lab. But before he knew it, sunlight was streaming in past the curtains, he had a crick in his neck and Sherlock remained dead-to-the-world, lying in much the same position that he had passed out in last night.

John got up, stretched his muscles painfully, stumbled over to feel Sherlock's forehead (still far too warm for comfort), then to go take care of himself: making breakfast, changing clothes, cleaning up the rest of the mess in the bathroom.

A ragged cough or two from the bedroom brought him running back, only to find Sherlock still fast asleep. And now even though showered, fed and cleaned, John still felt the siren's call of the bed. Sherlock was only taking up the far side of it and the weary John decided to throw caution to the wind as he climbed in the side nearest the door and sagged back down in exhaustion. He dozed again for some hours before Sherlock's fidgeting and incoherent mumbling woke him up again.

John opened his eyes, and lay, mostly refreshed, next to his most important patient, gazing at the ceiling and randomly around the room, not yet wishing to give up his comfortable spot on the bed. Seeing nothing of interest he closed his eyes once more and lost himself in thought until movement, and a frustrated part-growl, part-whine emerged from Sherlock. John lifted one eye open and scanned it over Sherlock, whose body was fidgeting beneath the sheet, not quite tossing or turning, but attempting to do _something_, and from the scowls and noises Sherlock was making, apparently not quite achieving it.

John sat up and took a full-on look at his flatmate and charge. He was fidgeting, and scowling and, John's eyes travelling further downward, he thought he could see why. Sherlock appeared to be trying to grind against the sheet. Well _that_ wasn't likely to provide much relief, he thought. Then wondered why he was still looking. It was partly sad, partly amusing, but really, he should let Sherlock have his privacy. Though he'd seen much more blatant displays during his time in the army, as privacy was scarce and one either had to deal with the lack of it, or become a very frustrated monk. Of course, _those_ men had had enough wits about them to know to turn over and hump the mattress, rather than the sheet. Poor Sherlock did not, and appeared to be growing more distressed by the minute.

John shook his head balefully, scooted off the bed and attempted to roll the poor sod over, but his limp form refused to be budged. Another raspy whine escaped Sherlock's raw throat, while John gazed down at him. _Hell, he'd given prostate exams, how much worse could this be?_ He gradually brought the heel of his hand down over the bulge in the sheet, providing a little pressure for Sherlock to push against.

He was immediately greeted with a satisfied moan, as Sherlock pushed up against him again, harder, seeming to want more friction. Sherlock let out another soft moan, sounding more like a string of m's than anything else, and his jaw loosened as he began to take in small breaths through his mouth. Something about Watson responded in a way he didn't particularly want to think about. Perhaps it was making people feel good, bringing pleasure to those in pain - the doctor part of him, which found Sherlock's need for him compelling. Because certainly, Sherlock _did_ need him for this, and he could provide it without much effort, plus it made his flatmate feel good... He forced himself to stop thinking, and just provide Sherlock with what he needed. Like he said, he'd done less appealing things for strangers during his practice.

Sherlock was now pushing up against his hand with enough pressure that John felt the sheet must surely be starting to chafe. With a little tremble of apprehension, he stopped and pulled it down, exposing Sherlock to the air, and to his gaze. Not that he hadn't seen Sherlock naked before, if yesterday was anything to go by, he'd seen enough of him for a lifetime, however, he'd never seen him aroused, nor so vulnerable. Another needy moan issued forth as a raspy grumble. John's gaze travelled back up and down Sherlock's naked body once more before he threw all his preconceived ideas to the wind, and fumbled for his med kit, extracting some medical lubricant, and coating his hand with it thoroughly.

He hesitated once more before cautiously bringing his hand down and wrapping it around Sherlock's member. The moan he was greeted with was worth every second of self-doubt he'd had, and Sherlock began rutting into his fist, slowly at first, then picking up tempo as he went, the moans coming faster. John felt himself needing to take control, and he pushed Sherlock's hips down with one hand as he slowed the pace, while Sherlock writhed beneath his attentions, moaning and whimpering. John felt himself getting hard, and tried to dismiss it as much as possible as he continued to stroke Sherlock, wringing all sorts of wonderful noises from him. Picking up his pace, he began rubbing his thumb and fingers over the spots he knew he felt most sensitive in himself, giving a half-twist at the head, running his fingers down and over the glans, along the underside of Sherlock's cock. It was intriguing to see his friend coming undone beneath him, and he supposed his own hard-on was a result of the power he felt in being able to get these reactions from his normally stoic Sherlock.

After experimenting with a few more grips, twists and flicks of his fingers, he added some more lube and picked up the pace, jerking Sherlock in earnest. John's breath began to come faster, as did Sherlock's, as the detective neared his peak. Finally, Sherlock's back arched off the bed and a low "Uhnnng" was pulled from his lips as he spent over himself and John's hand.

John sat dazedly for a moment, completely thrown by what he'd just done, and not entirely turned off by it either. He shook off the questions mounting in his head in order to wipe off his hand on the sheet, clean Sherlock up and throw a new sheet over him, while the detective sunk back into a deep sleep, which he'd never completely emerged from to begin with.

John got up, checked the times for Sherlock's medicines, (not due for two hours yet), stuffed the soiled sheets into the washing machine, and sat down in the sitting room, going over the events in his mind. _Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock had needed him. He'd provided an outlet and yet, it had turned him on._ He didn't know what to think, so he satisfied himself by turning on the telly and having a good slow wank himself, replaying the entire scenario in his head. He came hard, nearly doubling in half thinking of it, taking nearly four minutes to come down from the shivers and aftershocks it sent through him.

After a good amount of thinking, during which he missed nearly the entirety of QI, he came to the conclusion that since it was probably the only time that was going to happen, he simply wouldn't worry himself over it anymore: A noble decision that was much more difficult to attain than he wanted to admit.

Getting up and cleaning up once more, he went to fetch Sherlock's meds, gradually roused the detective enough to gulp them down, then watched him fade back off into oblivion, this time mumbling incoherent things about squirrels and kneecaps.


	3. Massages and Mayhem

The rest of the day passed during which there were no further incidents, though John almost wished for another excuse to 'help' his friend out. Although it bothered him, John couldn't quite get past the fascination he held for that moment when he had worked Sherlock unknowingly into a blissful release.

Sherlock woke only a few times during the day, barely lucid for any of them, but enough for John to feed him and force some water and medicines down his throat, before passing out again, usually speaking nonsense whenever he did talk. John squirreled the phrases away wondering if he should post the good ones on his blog, but thought better of it - a well and petulant Sherlock could bring off a world-class sulk for weeks, which was not something he wished to endure.

Night fell after a largely uneventful day and John, wanting to be there in case Sherlock woke up or suddenly got worse, took the near side of the bed once again, scrunching himself to the side to allow Sherlock to splay himself over the rest of it.

About five hours in, Sherlock moaned. John sat up quickly, his ears having been perked for any sounds Sherlock might make. It hadn't been a moan of pleasure, that was for certain, this one sounded pained. He felt Sherlock's head once again, the fever was low-grade now, and Sherlock was starting to stir. A hiss of indrawn breath from his patient got his attention again. He leaned over, shook Sherlock's shoulder slightly and asked, "What's happening, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Oh god, I hurt," came the raspy reply.

"Where? What hurts?"

"Everywhere. All my muscles are on fire." A low groan issued from Sherlock's lips, "Please, knock me back out again. I could take this if I had to, but I really don't want to."

John checked his watch again. Sherlock was past due for his next dose, and a pain-killer probably wouldn't hurt if it allowed Sherlock some more uninterrupted sleep. He slipped from the bed, grabbed a few pills from his kit, and some doses from the bottles he'd left in the kitchen. Unable to balance a glass of water with them, he brought them back to Sherlock, who sat up creakily and downed them like a champion drinker doing shots. John handed him the pills, intending to go back to fetch him a glass, but Sherlock downed them dry, then flopped back onto the bed with another hiss of pain.

"How long until they work?" croaked Sherlock.

"About twenty minutes and you should be out again." John looked over at Sherlock, who was lying flat on his back next to him, grimacing. "This is the first time I've seen you lucid in two days, you know," he commented.

An "Mm" of response was all that was forthcoming. Then the half-croaked words "Lucidity is overrated," as Sherlock made an attempt at a joke, smiling and coughing at the same time.

"Here, turn over Sherlock, I can work on your muscles until the medicine kicks in. Fevers can sometimes cause hellish cramping, I know."

"Can't, John."

"Why not?"

"Turning over would likely kill me."

"That bad?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence before John said, "Well, I guess I can work from the front, what hurts the most, Sherlock?"

"Shoulders, arms, legs, neck...anything that moves, actually."

"Ah. Well, that narrows it down," John smiled back at him, "let's start with the shoulders, shall we?" And John moved up the bed to capture Sherlock's shoulder between his palms, rubbing slowly, then rotating it gradually before bringing his fingers into play.

An unearthly moan escaped from Sherlock, and John fought to keep naughty images from flooding his mind. "That's fantastic, John, thank you," rasped Sherlock.

"No problem." John bit down on his lower lip as he concentrated on moving the massage down Sherlock's arms, then working back to his shoulder. Sherlock practically purred with contentment. About ten minutes in, Sherlock was beginning to get loopy again, and rather chatty too. He began regaling John of his childhood pranks, revealing that he did actually have a sense of humor about him, even if Mycroft was often the butt of the jokes. There was also quite a bit of giggling emanating from the consulting detective as bits and pieces of conversations he'd had with various people struck him funny. John enjoyed the one-sided banter, but since it was going to be at least another ten minutes before Sherlock was out again, it was time to work on his other side. This was a problem, as there was no extra bed on the other side of Sherlock, and Sherlock was not moving come hell or high water.

"I can straddle you then," John threatened.

"Do your worst," came the raspy retort.

John shrugged and slung a leg over Sherlock, reaching up to work on his far arm and shoulder, nearly laying over Sherlock to do so.

"Are you trying to seduce me, doctor?" came a slurred voice, filled with mischief and a sly grin, as Sherlock poked fun at his flatmate.

"What?" John sat back up quickly, letting Sherlock's arm fall from his hands, "No! Sherlock! Why would I do that?"

Sherlock actually pouted. "Not worth it then? Ah well, I suppose I shall survive, as long as you continue with the massage. I may actually die without it, you know."

John blinked a few times, trying to work out what exactly it was Sherlock was trying to do, before settling on having been the target of a jest. "Just rest, Sherlock, drugs should kick in soon. I'll work the muscles loose until then." John started back in on Sherlock's arm and shoulder and quiet descended on them as he worked the muscles loose and Sherlock gave satisfied hums along the way. Nearly finishing his second traverse from shoulder to fingertips, he was startled by Sherlock's voice again, slurring nearly beyond recognition.

"Neck."

"What?"

"Arm sore...hmm...neck worse. Neck please," came the grumbled plea.

"Fine." John sat up, stretched his arms above his head, cracked his knuckles and leaned down to cradle Sherlock's neck between his hands and start kneading, when he was met by a snore.

John moved to dismount Sherlock, when the detective woke with a start, complaining, "Neck," again.

Rolling his eyes and repositioning himself, he began working on the stiff muscles. Sherlock gasped, and John abruptly stopped. "Sorry, did that hurt?"

"Mm. Yes. No but yes."

"Should I stop?"

"Nooo, please," Sherlock breathed quietly, seeming to drift off once again.

John kept his deft fingers working, slightly softer this time, even after he knew Sherlock was out again, figuring if he stopped before Sherlock was completely under, he'd likely just wake and complain again. Besides, the soft "Mmms" coming from Sherlock interspersed with nearly every other snore, were a decent incentive to keep going.

Slowly, John felt Sherlock's hips rise against his, and a mumble issue forth, before a deep sigh.

John stilled immediately, sitting up straight and not knowing what to think. Sherlock's hips ground against him again this time accompanied by a little grunt.

John's hands shook. He _had_ been looking for an excuse... "Sherlock!" he whispered, rather loudly.

The only response he got was a contented "Mmm" and another thrust of Sherlock's hips, followed by a rough snore.

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ came the thought, and John lowered himself back over the sleeping detective and helped grind against him. "Holy shit," he whispered to himself, eyes half-closing, feeling his prick push up against Sherlock's, both of them hard as rocks.

Moments passed with nothing but contented grunting and soft, inaudible words coming from either of them. Then Sherlock's breathing became deeper, quicker, and words John _could_ catch made their way to his ears, softly mumbled: "Oh god, John. Yes, like that..." just seconds before Sherlock exploded, dampening the sheet between them. John sat stock still, jaw hanging open, in awe of what he'd just heard, as another snore escaped Sherlock, now deeply asleep again.

John's erection was completely wiped out, as he dismounted Sherlock and tottered into the living room, still not believing his ears, and hoping to God that Sherlock had been dreaming. _Did he really *want* Sherlock to have been dreaming?_ Confusion reigned for many minutes before sleep caught up with John and he passed out on the sofa.

* * *

The next morning arrived with Sherlock shaking him awake. John blinked the sand from his eyes and looked about, the sunlight from the windows making him groan and turn the other way. "God, what time is it Sherlock?"

"Nearly 15:00. You've been asleep most of the day."

"You're feeling better I take it?"

"Not one-hundred percent yet, but yes, a marked improvement from the past couple of days, as far as I can tell." Sherlock took an appraising look at John: His eyelids were red and puffy, there was a flush across his face and neck and his eyes were a bit unfocused. "You however, look as if you've seen better days."

"I have," croaked John, massaging his neck, then moaning, "Oh god, I think I'm sick."

There was a little flicker of a twitch at the edge of Sherlock's mouth, only a millisecond before he said, "Just write down the instructions for the medications, John. I'll take care of you."


End file.
